Leviathan
by monthefratellis
Summary: A lone drifter with a blood-soaked past washes up in Jump City, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake. With every road leading to Apocalypse, can he manage to escape his tragic destiny? *Rated T for bad words* bb/rae and rob/star
1. Charlie the Tuna

Something I've been tinkering with. Hope you like it. I have a lot of ideas for this story moving forward, but writing's a bit of a hassle right now. Between the lack of internet in my barracks, long working hours, and roommates, it's hard putting out quality material. But I'll totally keep at it if you dig what you're reading. Feel free to drop a review if you'd like to see me continue.

Few things to keep in mind:

1) Yeah, the tone does seem to get a little heavy at times, but this tends to only happen when the perspective is around the OC. There'll be plenty of dark moments, as well as plenty of lighthearted moments with the team. Not to mention plenty of shameless BB/Rae fluff. I'm weird like that.

2) I throw in a lot of references to music, movies, whatever. Some are pretty blatant, but others are pretty obscure. Have fun.

3) This site eats most of my punctuation. Hopefully I've corrected everything.

*I do not own the Teen Titans*

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He'd been living out of a suitcase for a while now. The better part of an entire year of his life crammed into an old Nike gym bag in the trunk of a '72 Chevelle coupe. Time wasn't something you really paid much attention to as it passed by. A day or two there. Maybe a week here. Then before you knew it, it was freaking _January_, and then you blinked and March had been right there the whole time, just waiting for you to notice …

"A whole, freakin' year," he whispered to himself, scanning the warehouse coolly as he crept up alongside it. It had been a slow day. Looked like rain, but nada. Skies all grey, overcast, more chill in the air than he liked. But that was expected of October—even in Jump City—and he made his peace with that. All that cool ocean air permeated the entire shipping district, the remnants of this morning's fog still crawling up and down the narrow streets, and-to his chagrin-hiding dozens of potholes. He found a parking spot just down the alley, not too far away in the event he needed an exit, but not so close as to alert anyone inside to his presence. This side of the district was pretty much dead, a sea of condemned buildings, but he'd rather not advertise himself to anyone who might've been watching. Probably users or homeless, the two words more often than not interchangeable, he figured. He eased his car up just so, finally putting it in park, then killed the engine. The car rattled and groaned, little _tink_, _tink_, _tinks_ from under the hood as it cooled down. He sat there for a time, both hands loose, relaxed on the wheel, eyes unfocused, peering out ahead of him, lost in thought. He had a general idea of how he expected things to go down.

This _was_ the place, alright. And his information was good, he knew, having felt out the building as he drove by. But for all his ideas, he didn't dare venture to use the word _plan_. Yes, he'd put in the hours, reconnoitered the joint, done a little background prep, and had a pretty clear picture of what he was liable to walk into. But at the end of the day, he recognized, all his ideas ended with him kicking down the door and putting bullets downwind. And no matter what his lizard-brain told him, charging in guns-blazing did not a plan make. He was like an old crooner who'd scored a top ten early on, and spent the rest of his career shucking out new albums in an attempt to capture that old sound. For better or worse, his audience expected a certain setlist. Give the people what they wanted, y'know? Never mind artist integrity …

He fiddled with his rearview, sizing up the warehouse one last moment. It was three stories of blacked-out windows, untreated wood that had become spongey with termites, and amateur graffiti (though he thought the _Heisenberg Lives! _was a nice touch, really tied the room together). Squint your eyes, and you could barely even make out the fire-damage on this side. He distinctly remembered passing the _Venture Properties LLD_ sign a few blocks back, suddenly feeling real bad for the realtor who had to pitch this place, imagining words like _fixer-upper_, _ocean view_, and _friendly neighbors_ being thrown around. The whole scene was a graveyard of gutted shipping containers, a patchwork labyrinth of blue tarp, old, rotted mattresses, oil drums repurposed as urban campfires, and _yes, _those damn shopping carts that so often went missing out of the Wal-Mart parking lot (Did Jump City even have a Wal-Mart … ? He'd been in town maybe two weeks, having loaded up on essentials at the Circle Kangaroo). Dollars to donuts he couldn't take three steps-a-mister without hearing that unmistakable _crunch _of used needles underfoot.

The invisible hand of the economy hung over the place like a hungry ghost. Nothing on this side of town but old, empty canneries and storehouses. Urban Decay 101. Didn't take the sharpest of hammers to see how the seedier element could take root in a place like this, ignored and marginalized for so long. Push that shopping cart down the street every night, wearing the one t-shirt you owned, which didn't hide the scabs and the track marks on your arms so hot, and you'd see. People'd break their necks not to look at you. And for better or worse (worse), they'd found a place to call their own. It was sad, really. Disgusting on a cellular level, yeah. But sad, all the same. Sure, most days he felt like an ant under a magnifying glass, but at least he had a roof over his head and good tires under his feet. Now granted, the roof was starting to sink in a little, leaking wads of yellow stuffing he couldn't help but pick at, and the cold air was deflating his tires, but _hey_, he may as well have been Bruce freakin' Wayne to these people. He could have it a lot worse. He shook his head a little, literally brushing his thoughts away, not wanting to risk another one of his famous pity-parties that ended with him doing things he couldn't come back from. It was time to go to work.

The keen observer would note that the place looked deserted. It was an eerie scene, the only sound the rustling wind, which had just begun to pick up, an unseen broom carelessly scattering wrappers, soiled newspapers, and those plastic soda bands that were the bane of seagulls everywhere-seagulls, mind you, that were curiously absent this neck of the wharf. And he'd bet his last twenty the seagulls had disappeared _long _before the evil manifested in the warehouse and cleared everyone away. Not caring to entertain _that_ particular implication, he grabbed at his holster one last time, needing to feel the weight of his old, honest-to-God Schofield, chambered for a bullet they stopped making the year Hitler took Paris, and Bugs Bunny became became a thing. The events were probably unrelated—one being a looney toon, and the other a talking rabbit. He stepped out of his car and made for the warehouse, muttering to no one in particular about having made a wrong turn at Albuquerque.

Turned out he was right, gingerly sidestepping needles and other detritus, taking care to make as little noise as possible. He still had the element of surprise, after all. He caught the smell of the place about ten yards before he reached the side. The place absolutely _reeked_—and it wasn't all because of the locals. In the year he'd been doing this, he still hadn't reckoned an accurate description for the sheer _wrongness _he could feel wafting from inside. Though, if he really concentrated, he could pick out familiar notes of sulfur.

_Brimstone_. Made sense. The place had been tainted _looong_ before they showed up. Moths to a flame. They were drawn to it. It was the nature of the beast. _Hell, it pulled me here, didn't it? Doorbell rings and I come a-runnin'_. _Evil begets more evil._

He found a man-sized crevice in the wall, his point of ingress, foregoing the side-door and its loud, rusted hinges. He had to crouch to fit through, last streaks of light dying feet from his makeshift entrance. He willed his eyes, and they adjusted instantly, one of the many perks of his heritage.

He emerged into what may have been a manager's office at one point. Instead, he found himself stepping into the middle of a drug den. Boxes of lab equipment. Beakers, vials, other glasswork. Workbench in the corner, rows upon rows of noxious chemicals stacked haphazardly. Small generator that must've powered the operation. _Gas powered_? Sure enough, he could detect gasoline just under the stench of the place, meaning there had to be a hell of a lot of it stashed somewhere. Which meant there were probably several more labs hiding somewhere within. Taking into account all those chemicals—and his rotten luck—the place was liable to go fireball any minute. Trash littered the floor everywhere he looked. More mattresses in the corner, mystery stains he didn't care to identify. Something skittered past his leg. He trained his gun on it instinctively, making a sharp pivot. He realized too late it was only a rat, his foot sending a beer bottle he hadn't seen rattling across the floor. He gritted his teeth, listening to the noise carry down into the belly of the warehouse, which—until now—had been perfectly silent. Sam Fisher he was not. _Smooth_, he winced. _Real smooth_. A good five agonizing seconds later, the bottle came to a stop across the room. He waited, eyes scanning every recess, nook, and cranny for movement.

Nothing.

He took a few tepid steps further into the darkness, his heavy boots not doing him any favors out on the old, termite-chewed, wooden floor. He took it slow, making it past the door, which read _MANAGEMENT _in frosted lettering. From there, it was all winding corridors and passageways-the place had seemed a lot smaller from the outside. He made his way carefully, extending his senses out as he walked. He found nothing-a bad sign. Finally, he emerged onto the main floor of the warehouse, large but cluttered with pallets, crates, and shipping containers, which gave it a cramped, maze-like feel. The area was open all the way to the roof, stacks upon stacks of containers piled high to the ceiling, catwalks crisscrossing and bisecting the upper level. Only the barest streaks of light managed to penetrate the roof, if anything, serving only to show how incredibly, pervasively dark it was. It wouldn't be long before night fell. _Homefield advantage_, he thought.

He had expected to encounter some resistance by now. But, nothing. He figured he could play it one of two ways; either continue slinking around the warehouse until he found what he was looking for, or go loud and _dumb_, and make the party come to him. He spotted a stack of crates about two stories high in the corner. Without a moment's hesitation, he began to clamber up, reaching the top quickly. From his newfound vantage point, he surveyed the place briefly, clocking several entrances and exits, in the event things got too real, too fast. Satisfied, he gave the crate next to him—marked with a smiling dolphin—a hard, deliberate kick, sending it clattering down to the floor. It exploded on contact, punctured tins leaking some sort of meat ooze onto the floor. He didn't have to wait long to see if it had worked. A throaty, guttural roar erupted from somewhere deeper in the warehouse, rending the stark, oppressing silence that blanketed the compound. The entire facility shook, motes of dust squeezed from the groaning wooden beams overhead, hanging, dead lights shaking violently, dislodging the silky net of spider webs that had accumulated among the rafters. He felt each lumbering, titanic step as they hit the ground, heavy with violence.

Whatever it was, it sounded _pissed_.

Levi smiled.

His nose saw it before his eyes did. The stench hit him in waves, so pungent it knocked the breath out of him, and scorched his lungs, nearly toppling him from his post. Rotting meat. Sulfur. Old blood. _Man's blood_. And _tuna_. Mostly, tuna. He gagged.

"Gyaggh!" He clutched his nose in disgust, tempting to clench it shut, but not liking his nasally voice. "Tuna? _Really?!_"" he asked aloud, incredulously. "You just sit here in the dark, smelling like tuna all day? That's like crazy-cat-lady territory."

The beast erupted from behind another stack of containers, choking the air with plumes of dust, and rancid tuna-meat shrapnel. It was _huge_, maybe twenty feet tall, all slick, black, rubbery muscle. It looked a lot like a killer orca—if killer orcas stood on two legs and ate homeless. And, _tuna_. He shuddered. The demon screamed, a deep bellow that tackled him with a gust of of hot, moist tuna-breath.

"No accounting for taste, huh? But then again, you ate a lotta guys, with _a lotta_ drugs in 'em. Brains're all probably scrambled up? Way to set a real nice example for the children." Its beady eyes snapped to him, mouth split into what he assumed to be some sort of equivalent to a smile, rows of jagged shark's teeth, each longer than his foot, all glinting with bad intent. It didn't take a mind reader to figure out where this was going next. The demon lunged towards him-no easy feat, given its sheer bulk-only to collide with an empty mountain of crates. Levi, clearing the jump and scrambling onto the wooden catwalk just behind the beast, fanned out six shots into the exposed meat of its backside, each shot searing the room absinthe-green with every muzzle flash. The demon buckled, crashing into the pile. He went down hard, a violent tremor shooting through the place. He gripped the railing to steady himself. "HEY! " he hollered, doing his damndest not to smile. "You really think I wanted to spend my day fighting some cracked-out fish monster?!" The beast roared again, this time a lot higher-pitched. Not hesitating, he elected to put six more shots into its back, where its thick hide was weakest. Its scream became a bloodcurdling caterwaul, but then died lamely, as the beast drew heavy, labored breaths. He might've finished it then and there, had the catwalk not collapsed on him.

The termites had clearly had a field day with the building. He barely had time to swear as the entire catwalk came crashing down with him. He hit the ground hard, what was left of the structure hitting him harder. He was pinned for the moment, the center of a noxious dust devil that-with his luck-was probably 90% asbestos. He went into a coughing fit as he attempted to free himself from the destroyed wooden beams that bound him. With grim realization, he noted his gun was no longer in his hand. In fact, it had clattered away, more than arm's length from him. He winced more in frustration than pain, as he wormed himself out of the wreck. He was almost to his feet when he finally noticed the heavy presence behind him. It had snuck up on him.

Now, he did have time to swear as he dove forward for his gun, the demon's scythe-like claws rending the space he'd occupied merely a second before with horrific force. He managed it, landing on his stomach, pawing for his revolver and finding its familiar grip. He rolled onto his back, angling for a shot, just in time to see the beast with its claws extended to the sky, prepared to deliver the killing blow. He wouldn't give it the chance.

"Sorry, Charlie," he whispered, risking a precious half-second to line up his shot. The beast tensed. He fired.

The _crack_ of gunfire split the air, echoing into the emptiness. The shot caught it right in its blubber-insulted head, in the white splotch above its left eye. Black ichor erupted from the wound in a vile geyser, as the demon recoiled back in agony. He pressed the advantage, burying another round into the same spot. The creature howled, flailing its claws wildly in a bloodrage. It shrieked something awful, digging into the floorboards, preparing to mount one last-ditch attack. For good measure, he put two more rounds into the beast.

That did it.

As the last shot struck, it was as if someone had passed an electric current through the demon. It suddenly began to convulse wildly, before just as quickly freezing in place, it's already blackened, beady eyes becoming distant, cloudy, and unfocused. He'd evidently knocked its IQ down to the single digits. Despite himself, he didn't enjoy seeing the creature in that state-the brain dead, but the body too stubborn to let go. He delivered the _coup de grace_ without further ceremony, putting a final round into the creature.

And then, gravity ensued.

He _really_ should have planned that one better. Momentum began to gather behind the hulking giant, and before he knew it, six tons of deadweight came crashing down upon him. Faster than he thought he could move, he managed to roll himself out of the way as the beast hit the floor ... _and proceeded to punch straight through it, into the abyss below_. The earth split its jaws wide and tried to swallow Levi. He flung himself as far away as he could, which wasn't nearly far enough. He snagged a crossbeam on his way down, gripping it for dear life, his whole body snapping taught at the sudden stop. He couldn't have counted to two before the monster's body finally touched down in the basement, the resulting shockwave strong enough to be felt in Gotham. It felt like the warehouse was tearing itself apart at the seams. The whole place shook like Michael J. Fox had stuck a fork in a toaster. He somehow managed to hang on, nearly losing his gun into the abyss, which was somehow even _darker_ than the rest of the warehouse, straining even his eyes. It took a whole minute for the place to settle down—_he counted._

He hung there for a time, closing his eyes and taking in the sound of the place. Satisfied, he began to clamber up the crossbeam and back onto solid footing, the beam groaning precariously as he did. Without further incident, he found himself back on the main floor, sitting on another one of those tuna crates, lost in thought.

_Wasn't expecting the big guy. Haven't seen anything like him in months. Never thought I'd get nostalgic for Lessers. Demon like that doesn't just show up uninvited. No, somebody put him here-but who? Rival operation? Why would a guy with that kind of pull get involved in a petty turf war? Doesn't make sense. _He felt the cold chill of realization creeping up his spine. _Because this isn't a turf war. It's a freaking bacteria culture. A place for this clown to grow his pets. Enough room to stretch your legs, and_—he winced—_all the food you can eat. These people don't have families. No one to miss them. To start asking questions. It's brilliant, really. I know he's behind this. He's in town. And he can't run forever._

Something broke the comfortable silence that had set over the room. What looked like an aluminum can came bounding out of the darkness, skipped across the floor, and landed about ten feet in front of him.

It took Levi about all of two seconds to realize it was a flash grenade.


	2. Blinded by the Light

Sorry about the downtime between updates. I'm been working 60-70 hour weeks, with little chance to put pen to paper. This particular piece has also been giving me some difficulty, as I've been bogged down trying to reach my arbitrary minimum of 3,000 words per chapter. Additionally, I'm having a hard time uploading text, as this site tends to eat my hyphens, quotations, italics, and apostrophes, to say nothing of the noble ellipsis. I've never been much of a proofreader, but hopefully I've managed to fix everything. But fortunately, I've finally been moved into a new barracks with internet access, and I should be able to pump out material a lot faster. Feel free to drop a review. Your love keeps me going. No pressure.  
>*I do not own the Teen Titans*<p>

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>...<p>

His entire universe was consumed in a perfect, searing whiteness that pervaded every inch of his being. Somewhere, buried underneath all the agony, he was pretty sure he was screaming. Relatively speaking, the detonation had been about as loud as a 12-gauge going off in his ear. His head felt like speed bag. He could barely discern his own thoughts as they rattled around inside his skull, each one like a pinball violently ricocheting from one end to the next, chewing up whatever they hit. His balance was gone now, he soon discovered. He grew vaguely aware he had fallen, and now stumbled blindly across the floor. His world was spinning, his lizard-brain convinced he would fly off into space at any moment if he didn't hang on to the floor for dear life. He wasn't himself. Pale, naked instinct took over. Desperation. His mental defenses were down, and in that moment, he felt it.

The Whisper.

He felt the darkness there, like teeth snapping at the edge of his soul, his personal hell buried under layers of jagged rock and dark earth. But in the darkness lied power. He dared draw it only in wellsprings and fountainheads. But here he was now, hand in the cookie jar, clawing hungrily into the darkness. He found it, or rather, it found him, the demonic energy surging through him. It wormed through him, his scattered and overloaded senses reforming, his faculties returned. He found himself once more in the warehouse, only now, it was lit via red flares loosely scattered throughout the complex, casting the warehouse in an eerie blood-pallor. He had company.

There were four of them, and they had him loosely surrounded. They—where had he seen them before?—had evidently slipped inside minutes ago. They painted an odd picture. The group consisted of a man in some kind of weird, fringe-tech glowing armor, a redhead in the kind of outfit that gave men ideas, another in a cape, and finally, the palest girl he'd ever seen, wrapped in what—from this distance—looked to all hell like a Snuggie, her feature obscured under a hood._ And they had hit him with a grenade_. He felt the power kick malevolently inside him. It wanted out, and it wanted out _now_. The air grew heavy with the threat of violence, the great room suddenly becoming a lot smaller, the stacks of freight like dark, towering spires trapping them. It was evident by their posture that they felt it, too. The evil slithered out of him like nettled, hungry vines, eagerly taking root in every crack and crevice they found. He could feel the Whisper at his shoulder, hot breath teasing his ear.

_SHOW THEM, LEVI_, it began, sibilant and awful. _SHOW THEM THE TEETH BEHIND YOUR FLESH_.

He had drawn too much power, too fast. He d tapped a wicked geyser. He could feel it twisting his insides around like a knotted ulcer. He couldn't give in to it. He couldn't just hand it the reins to his body and say _happy trails_. He wouldn't let himself become his own shadow, standing cold outside the window of his soul, watching the thing that wore his skin. It was coloring his thoughts now, the violent shades of blood and contusions. He gripped his pistol tighter, knuckles whitening under the sound of snug leather.

They _had_ attacked him, after all. Anything that followed was just self-defense, really.

The room had dropped what felt like 30 degrees. He became aware of his breath as it left his chest, hanging in the air. Something about that snapped him back to reality. He focused on his breathing, attempting to drive the urges away. He drew a last, deep breath, managing to shake away the devil riding his shoulder. The group was looking at him, the same way one looks at a cornered, rabid animal. Their bodies were like springs, tensed for movement._ For a fight_.

"Drop the weapon," began the cape, clearly the group's leader. He was young. Maybe Levi's age, or thereabouts. Maybe a little short for the group he led. Uniform was about the ugliest he'd ever seen, a mismatch of reds, yellows, and greens. He looked like a traffic light. Was the too-much-gel look intentional? Didn't strike Levi immediately as the leader type, but then again, he had never really been the best judge of character. "... before things get ugly."

"The way you're fishing at the belt of yours, looks like I don't get much of a say things turn ugly," Levi drawled, watching with a keen eye as the cape's hands hovered just over his belt, letting him know that's where he kept his party favors. The cape's eyes narrowed underneath his domino mask. He was clearly sizing him up the way Levi had done moments ago, waiting for Levi to tip his hand. Card shark he was not, but he could put on the poker face every now and then. "Look, I'm about finished up here. You folks turn on around, and I _maybe_ can get past the whole hittin'-me-with-a-grenade thing," he added with a toothy smile. He was being difficult, a fact that brought him much amusement. He had a tendency to make an ass out of himself. _Call it a character flaw_. It was just his way. All that bad juju he'd summoned up moments before still hung in the air, leaking out of him like someone had stuck him full of holes. That kind of energy flew in just below the sensory threshold, putting the fine hairs at the back of your neck on edge, and coloring your subconscious with almost imperceptible dread. He was about a second away from opening his mouth to say something, when what felt like a city bus (a double-decker, specifically) sideswiped him. To his chagrin, he realized only too late, one's tendency to talk with one's hands could be seen in a certain light as threatening, if one added a firearm to the equation.

Levi was flung across the room, where he crashed directly into a wooden support beam about twice as wide as he was, finding it with the small of his back. It splintered on impact, a visible lightning strike forming down the length of the shaft. Searing pain jolted through his hip, and he lost his breath in a fine mist of spittle. He collapsed heavily onto the floor, gun clattering limply beside him. He scrambled for it, as a large, looming shape lunged at him from behind a stack of pallets. He didn t hesitate, blasting it with a heady surge of the power he had drawn earlier. The _crack_ of gunfire split the dead air, and the figure was flung violently backwards by the impetus of the blast. He caught a quick flash of it, what he swore looked like a _500lb silverback-freaking-gorilla_, as it was hurled backwards into the stack of pallets, which collapsed to bury it. Levi groaned wearily, picking himself back up again. He trained his gun on the sight, a pair of what looked like thick gorilla-feet sticking out from under the rubble. He steeled himself against another attack, wondering if he imagined the peculiar shade of green that belonged to the beast. He watched curiously as the appendages seemingly morphed before his eyes into the legs of a young man, who was now pinned Wicked-Witch-of-the-East style under the rubble.

_He had shot a person_.

Levi swore. He became aware of the presence that materialized just in front of him. The pale girl from earlier seemingly melted out of the shadows themselves to manifest in front of him. Her head was cocked to the side, towards the man he had shot, and despite the hood that hid her face, he managed to make out her eyes. They were wide with horror. Levi all but blanched, holstering his weapon. She was looking dead at him now, Levi suddenly overcome with the very vivid sensation of standing before a firing squad. Her lips began to move, a low susurrus of words he couldn t pick out. As he opened his mouth to say something—of what, he didn't yet know—his ears managed to catch her last word, dripping with venom.

"... _zinthos_!"

Faster than he would've had time to blink, Levi found himself all the way across the room, driven like a nail into the side of a concrete abutment at the far end of the warehouse. He cracked his head hard enough to shatter teeth, which clenched together with enough pressure to grind them down into a fine powder. Everything turned that particular shade of brain-damage darkness as his body all but melted into the concrete. It barely registered inside his noggin as thick tendrils of darkness wrapped around his body like hungry boa constrictors. They snapped taut over his limbs, and with literally breakneck swiftness, his crumpled form was wrenched from the concrete, leaving a Levi-shaped hole behind him. Under normal circumstances, he would've made a Wile E. Coyote crack, but to his chagrin, the hooded girl was now flinging him to the far side of the room—hitting everything in between. Levi tore through stacks of crates and pallets, upending towering shelves that had a cataclysmic domino effect, leveling the entire room in his wake. He left only dust and splinters as he slammed into the far wall—and went straight through it, a wild bullet into the cold, seasalt night.

He hit the asphalt bone-crunchingly hard, skipping like a stone breaking the mirrored surface of a gentle lake. He traveled several more painful meters before finally skidding to a halt, leaving a red contrail along the pavement as he did. It took Levi a second to come-to, his brain still rattling around his skull like an old prizefighter. Slowly, a wan smile began to form on his lips. Evidently, all that trauma had knocked a thought loose. He swore, laughing, a guttural thing that died softly in the night.

"The Teen Titans," he managed, to no one in particular. He realized then why they were vaguely familiar to him, and—as usual—he was a day late, and a dollar short. They were the Teen Titans, Jump City s resident superhero guardians, sworn to protect her citizens against all evil.

_And he had shot one of them._

He groaned, picking himself up. He was caked in filth. The witch—her name escaped him—had blasted him outside, back into tent city, where he had taken out several makeshift rag-dwellings of tarp and painter s plastic unfortunate enough to lie in his flight path. Considering all the biohazard landmines that littered the area, he gave himself a quick once-over, not finding any needles sticking out of him, thank God. He was covered in his own blood, but that was to be expected. He healed pretty quick—he _was_ of the demonic persuasion after all—and his body was eagerly consuming the pent-up energy he had tapped earlier. Really, it was the grime that bugged him the most-he was very particular with his duds, and his style wasn't cheap. He needed to sanitize. But, perhaps most importantly, he needed to keep moving.

Looking at his current predicament as objectively as possible, it could perhaps possibly _maybe_ be seen, Levi admitted, that he wasn't winning this round. Put more simply, Levi was at the ass-end of an ass-kicking. He wasn't going to be walking away with the championship belt—not unless he escalated things to a much more dangerous level, anyway—and he didn't wish the Titans any harm. He'd done enough to them tonight.

They were the good guys. He wasn't.

Pride (one of his seven most favorite sins) notwithstanding, having five card-carrying superheroes out for his blood did not a winning proposition make. He took in his surroundings, having gotten mixed-up, turned-around, shook-up, and scrambled during the scuffle. Immediately, he noticed the familiar sight of an old, cherry-red '72 Chevelle, parked in the alley across the street. _Small miracles_. And who said he never showed any forethought in planning these little excursions?

He limped all the way across the street, more hurt than he cared to admit in his step. He fished for his keys in his jeans, a surge of existential panic gripping his heart, when he didn't find them immediately. He dug a little deeper, found them, and made for his car. He went for the door, careful with his key. He didn't want to scratch up his girl, after all. Seconds later, her heavy roar split the air, her great eyes driving away the teeth of the night. He hit the gas.

Levi got her up to 45, or thereabouts, before his car came to a sudden, violent stop—Levi not so fortunate. He became intimately acquainted with his windshield, his steering wheel driven into his chest. He snapped backwards, leaving behind a self-portrait of scarlet as he did. He grimaced, suddenly having a clearer picture of why seat belts were the law for a reason. Still, he found himself less concerned with his latest injury in tonight's very long line, and more concerned about the reason for his impromptu stop—namely, the black pincers of dark energy that now held his car in a vice-grip. He watched in a combination of amusement and horror, as the locks to his car all slammed into place at once. He wasn t going anywhere. By the time felt the great weight shift below him, his car climbing towards the clouds themselves, he wasn t even surprised anymore, realizing he _was_ going somewhere-up.

He went for his seatbelt, clicking himself into place.

He caught altitude fast, the momentum pinning him to his seat. When it lurched to an abrupt stop, he slammed his head against the roof, his seatbelt yanking him back down. The black energy oozed into the car, until it was wholly enveloped. It wasn't his car anymore. He was riding a great rollercoaster, the bar too tight and digging into his stomach. All he could do was hold on for dear life, and keep his arms and legs inside the ride at all times. He caught a flash of the girl in his rearview, frantically readjusting his mirror. She was levitating just behind him now, supported by her own, considerable power._ It's gonna be a bumpy ride_. As if on cue, his vehicle began to slowly rotate so that he faced the witch. It was an eerie sight, his headlamps illuminating her ominous form. She was cocooned in a black mass of writhing, undulating shadow, Levi almost taking it for a living presence. It took him a second to process what happened next. Her looming shadow grew behind her, taking form like the twining branches of a great, twisted poisonwood. He watched as the shadow bloomed into the monstrous form of a gigantic, warped raptor, a dark phoenix whose wings spanned the sky—he couldn t tell where it began and the night ended. Suddenly, the great bird opened its eyes—all four of them—and cast its hellish, red gaze at Levi. He blinked._ The Raven_. He watched the pale girl, mesmerized, the way a man observes the tiger at his throat. Beneath her hood, four silent, red eyes opened simultaneously. With a flick of her wrist, the bands of dark energy that held his car aloft vanished and—to his chagrin—gravity ensued.

He fell.

...  
>...<p>

_I laid myself out, I was so tired and I started to dream_

The radio. He pawed for the center console, his arm curiously heavy and awkward, not wanting to comply easily. He fumbled blindly for the seatbelt release, and found it. He thumbed it, soon wishing he hadn't, just as his brain caught up with the rest of his body. The belt gave instantly, and Levi came crashing down onto the roof of his car. The car had evidently flipped upside down during the tumble.

_In the morning the parking tickets were just like_

_Flags stuck on my windscreen._

Luckily, his neck broke his fall. He sighed, almost content to lay there and forget his troubles—were it not for the blazing inferno that environed him. The witch had put him through the roof of the warehouse, where he had managed to punch clean through to the basement. His earlier suspicions were confirmed—the cooks had been stashing gasoline and other chemicals below—and like most drug labs tended to do, this one was going _kablooey_. Of course he had to be at the center of it. He had to move before the entire complex came down over his head. His windshield was now completely blown out, matching the windows. In fact, his baby girl was now nothing more than a twisted wreck of hot, crumpled metal. He shifted slightly, catching the _crunch_ of broken glass under his back, almost hidden under the dull roar of the oncoming flames. He didn't feel the cuts, the bruises, or the heat. Really, he didn't feel much of anything at all, which was not a particularly great sign.

Levi was running low on devil-juice, his body burning up most of it just to keep him ambulatory and in one piece. If he didn't leg it out of there as soon as possible, he'd have to draw even more of his wicked power, much more than he felt comfortable playing with. As far as he was concerned, being buried in the rubble of that inferno was a better outcome than him losing himself to the evil within. Still, he was running on fumes now, his body liable to give out in the worst way. He started to gingerly ease himself up, careful not to slice himself up any further, when the door to his ruined coupe suddenly exploded off the hinges, and a massive arm snatched him by the leg, and wrenched him out into the fire. The last thing Levi saw before he went flying was his six-shooter—ripped from his holster—clattering loudly onto the roof of his car.

_Hey! (Hey!)_

_You! (You!)_

_Get off of my cloud!_

The tremendous force casually tossed Levi aside like a child's toy. He didn't fight it—he couldn't if he tried—tumbling along the floor several times, banging himself up even worse. It took just about everything he had left in the tank to pick himself back up again, and when he finally did, his legs were wobbly and a strong breeze away from giving out. He stood up, turning to face the demon, which bellowed a bone-rattling roar that shook the building, sending planks of wood, barrels, and other detritus crashing down from above. The fish beast just smiled at him, like an old card player that had turned a shit hand around and walked away with all his money. He hadn't killed it. He'd just pissed it off. And if anything, the demon was currently in better shape than Levi, even after having its skull ventilated. The monster was going to rip Levi apart at the seams. And his gun was now _aaaaaall_ the way over in his car, a demonic fish-hulk standing between he and it. Levi suddenly felt a lot smaller, and a lot less sure of himself. The beast took a lumbering step forward. Then another.

It wasn't long at all before the monster had picked up speed. Levi would only get one shot at this. He made a break for it, charging straight at the beast, his legs almost buckling as he did. The pair were on a collision course now, two trains on the same, bloodsoaked tracks. They met, Levi at the last second juking to the side in a play to slip around it, out of its reach, and snatch his gun. He failed spectacularly, the creature snagging his leg as he passed. Like a fisherman casting his line, the creature swung him over his shoulder, slamming him straight into the building's concrete foundation. The impact left a man-sized crater in the ground.

Levi didn't feel anything. He felt none of the dozens of wrecking ball fists that struck down on him again and again, like he was a strip of hot steel over an anvil. Blow after blow rained down upon him, Levi lacking even the strength to curl up into a ball. Each heavy fist sent an explosion of dust into the air, which mixed with the acrid, black smoke that began to choke the room. Levi was like a ghost, watching his own body from the outside. He could only look on as the creature beat him to a bloody pulp, its fists flecked with his blood, the creature attempting to break his ruined body.

And then it happened.

The demon s fist came down one last time, a spear to deliver the killing blow. Only this time, it stopped mid-swing, held in place by another, similarly clawed hand. Something exploded out of the earth like a vengeful, unchained titan. The creature shot backwards, stumbling away from him. It recovered, studying the crater warily as a figure emerged, all tooth, claw, and violence.

_Levi_.

He sauntered out of the hole, his fresh claws dangling menacingly at his side. The monster took a measured step backwards, unsure of the change that had overtaken him. He smiled, all canines, his fangs gleaming with shark's intent.

"Going somewhere?" he growled, practically _gliding_ across the floor. "And we were just starting to have _so much fun together_." In response, the monster took another swipe at him, he sidestepped it lazily, the beast catching only air. He yawned. "My turn."

He drove his claw into the beast's thigh. It buckled and keeled over at once, all that weight coming down on him like a cartoon piano. He pivoted around it, digging his claws into its back and began to claw his way upwards. The creature shrieked pathetically as he did so, attempting to buck him off like a wild horse. It thrashed about, only encouraging him to dig in his spurs even deeper. It screamed again, and that's when Levi made his move. With one hand, he gripped the base of its jaw and wrested it upwards, and with the other, he raked his claw over its tender, exposed neck. Its mewling cry died in its throat, replaced by a wet gurgle. He dismounted his monstrous steed, giving it a deliberate kick in the process. The momentum carried it half-dead into the fire, which eagerly licked at its unwilling flesh. It collapsed there, writhing in horrific, blood-curdling agony, before it finally seized up, went limp, and disappeared into the belly of the fire.

Levi watched, the smug, self-satisfied smile vanishing from his face, the weight of his actions suddenly upon him. He looked at his hands, which he suddenly found fascinating, the blood there like a smoking gun. He'd let the demon out of the cage. The guilt draped over him like blanket, swaddling him. He just stood there, the fire closing in around him. He half-wanted to stay there, let the fire take him. But it wouldn't do any good. He slammed his eyes shut and balled his fists together. He clenched them hard, his claws digging into his own flesh, drawing flesh blood. It wasn't as easy as flipping a switch, but Levi soon felt the change overtake him again, his claws and fangs receding, his flesh returning to normal. His newfound vigor all but gone now, he nearly passed out on the spot, vision going black and fuzzy. He rode it out, and found himself back standing there, ready to escape.

That's when he felt it.

It was like a magnetic presence, drawing him inexplicably forward. He didn't resist, following it further into the inferno. There, just beyond the corner, Levi found the young man from earlier, more blackened and red than green. He was unconscious—Levi's doing, no doubt—and pinned under a collapsed, burning crossbeam, the young man maybe minutes away from vanishing into the pyre. Levi moved quickly, using the last reserves of strength he had to lift the heavy beam. It scalded and blistered his hands, but he managed to raise it anyway, cursing holy hell the entire time. Completely spent, Levi snatched the young man into a fireman's carry and made for the exit.

...

...

...

Ironically enough, the fireman's carry had fallen out of favor with actual firemen. As it turned out, it increased the risk of smoke inhalation, as smoke tended to rise. It was unfortunate then as Levi was burdened with this knowledge just as he was burdened with the weight of the green Titan. Levi was barely vertical—the lift was about all he could manage, short of awkwardly dragging the young man out of the inferno, which wasn't an option, given the wrecked state of the warehouse. When they finally burst into the cool night, Levi almost collapsed from exhaustion. He managed to carry his charge all the way to the street before he finally stopped. Levi set him down gingerly. Neither one of them were in particularly good shape. Levi was preparing to perform triage when he heard the voice behind him.

"Beast Boy!"

Levi's head snapped backwards. It was the cape. The one who had hit him with the grenade. And here he was, hunched over the burned-up body of his teammate. _That he had shot_.

"It s not what it looks like—" Levi blurted, ever the teenage diplomat. "It s all been a big misunderstanding."

"I saw you carry him out of there," said the cape matter-of-factly, Levi finally noticing the giant _R_ on his chest. _Robin_.

"He needs immediate medical attention," Levi managed awkwardly, not sure what to say. Robin pulled out some kind of communicator and began giving orders to the rest of his team, who had been frantically searching for the green teen. The others were on there way over. The kid would be alright. Levi took the opportunity to slink away, back towards that damned warehouse that seemed to be behind all the day's troubles.

"Where are you going?" Robin asked incredulously. "You can barely stand."

"Had to get him out of there. Left my gear behind."

"You re not going back in there!" he barked with finality. He sounded worried, and not just for his green teammate. Levi finally saw it now, the ethereal spark within that great leaders carried.

"Didn't think ya' cared," Levi drawled. "Take care of your friend, _Robin_," he said simply, before vanishing into the fire.


	3. Rest for the Wicked

New chapter! This one's a long one. Sorry for the wait, but I've had a lot on my plate. Hey, that rhymed. Anywhoozle, I hope you like this one.

*I do not own the Teen Titans*

...

...

...

"So ..." Robin began, massaging a well-worn spot on his temple. "... We need to talk."

They'd been silent nearly the entire trip back to the tower. Beast Boy had quickly regained consciousness outside the warehouse, and proved to be in relatively stable condition. They'd all converged back on his position, grateful to see their teammate alive and in one piece. Robin did his best to explain the situation, a tangled knot of miscommunication and overreaction, when the empath finally materialized, a great cloak of shadow rising from the earth. It was as if winter came early, a chilling gust passing over them, despite the raging inferno at their backs. None of them knew what to say. But their eyes said it all. All she could do was watch as the stranger stumbled out of the blaze half-dead, an old, gym bag slung over his shoulder. She didn't realize what was happening until it was too late. She became suddenly aware of Cyborg's thick fingers clamped painfully onto her wrist, her arm extended towards the stranger, who now thrashed violently in the air, suspended by a living noose of writhing darkness. Cyborg's metallic digits dug in hard enough to leave an ugly bruise along her wrist. The sudden pain snapped her back to reality—the stranger's neck seconds away from doing the same. Back to her senses, she dropped him, recoiling from Cyborg's grip. It took her a while to register Robin's voice, the words flowing straight through her like a breeze through a window. A _misunderstanding_, he had called it. She didn't need to search their faces to see how they felt. Despite herself, she spared one last glance at Beast Boy, genuine fear in his wide eyes.

She vanished into the night. Starfire quickly took off towards the Tower, Robin deciding it best for Beast Boy to be moved in the T-Car. It had been a long, awkward ride back home. Though stranger was tight-lipped, the night's event's quickly fell into place. Arriving back, Robin insisted their new guest be hospitalized alongside Beast Boy, a necessary decision that left the entire team visibly uneasy. He couldn't blame them. This was their home. But now here they were, gathered in the living area, none of them wanting to discuss the green elephant in the room. And so it had come down to Robin to break the silence.

"That could've gone better," he said, a small smile forming on his lips, venting most of the tension out of the room, which had been building up like carbon monoxide.

"Coulda gone a lot worse." said Cyborg, who had taken the liberty of grabbing drinks for everyone**—**anything to lighten the mood. "I mean, I think we all thought BB had been shot for real." All eyes fell on Raven. They had found her like that, sitting at the edge of the couch, staring wordlessly into the bay. Cyborg extended his hand to the girl, offering her a drink. "I know it's not your first choice, but ... ?" Silently, she lowered her hood. Sparing the mechanical teen a brief look of gratitude, she accepted the soda. Her gaze fell back off into the distance, her fingers absentmindedly fiddling with the pop tab.

"Thanks," she said quietly. Starfire, hovering behind Robin, whispered that it had been the first thing she'd heard her say since the incident. Robin nodded. You didn't need to be the Junior Detective to see she was beating herself up over what happened.

"And none of us have the anger, Raven," said the redhead. "None of us blame you." Despite himself, Robin winced. And despite Starfire's sincerity, he knew she had managed to pick the worst possible sequence of words to say to the empath. By trying to assure her it was not her fault, Starfire may as well have implied otherwise.

"That's a lie," began the pale girl. "_I_ blame me." Robin sighed. He'd have to jump in. Be tactful. But, honest. Nothing short of that, no mollifying or placating, would help her get over what had happened. Telling her it wasn't her fault wouldn't do anything to stop her from beating up on herself. As strange as it sounded, she needed to hear the opposite. That she made a mistake. And things could've gone bad. But they _didn't_. Being a leader was hard some days. It meant making the right decisions**—**not always the easiest, or most popular. And some days, he knew, his team resented him for it.

Today would be one of those days.

"She's right, Star." He steeled his voice. "Mistakes were made." Cyborg's head snapped over to the teen, trying to hide the anger readily apparent on his face. Starfire gasped quietly, too shocked to speak. Robin made a mistake of his own, glancing at her briefly. For a second there, maybe he imagined it, she looked almost afraid of him, and what he would say or do next. He didn't dare look her in the eye**—**it was too much for him. Instead, he pressed on. "You lost control, Raven. I understand the anger you felt. I really do. But the lack of restraint you showed could've gotten somebody killed. If it hadn't been for _him_, Beast Boy wouldn't be with us right now. We're damned lucky he managed to walk away with only minor burns and smoke inhalation." A silence enveloped them. Raven finally spoke after a moment.

"He shot Beast Boy," she said, not sure if to Robin, the group, or just herself.

"It was a misunderstanding. I provoked the engagement, and I take full responsibility for today's events. And as I explained earlier, he never shot Beast Boy in the conventional sense. He blasted him with enough energy equivalent to one of Star's more powerful bolts**—**not enough to seriously injure him, but enough to ring his bell. No bullets involved. He would've been fine. But, your overreaction led directly to the fire. And the fire**—**"

"You're taking his side, Robin?"

"It's not about sides, Raven. Even after you went nuclear on him, he still risked himself to drag Beast Boy's unconscious body out of the inferno. And if he hadn't," Raven's eyes fell to the floor. She drew her cape tighter around her body, the sudden chill of cold guilt weighing down on her, making it harder to breathe. "... well, none of us want to entertain that thought. Beast Boy is alive right now, thanks to him. So, I think it goes without saying; we owe Levi a second chance at a first impression." Robin was speaking not only to Raven now, but the rest of his teammates. Even though they'd managed to sort most of the facts out, they still couldn't help but feel uneasy about him. For her part, Raven just sat there in silence.

"I agree, Rob," Cyborg said, stopping the looming silence in its tracks.

"I as well, Robin. But, admittedly, the business has been quite ugly today. I cannot help but feel the nervousness about him. What exactly do you have in mind? Surely ... ?" Starfire trailed off, not exactly sure how to ask the question on everyone's mind.

"You want to make him a Titan," The empath said, so low it barely registered in the room. It wasn't a question.

"It's a little forward-thinking, but _yes_," Robin admitted, "I think there may be some potential there." Cyborg sat there for a time, nursing his Coke, not sure how to feel.

"Robin," began the empath, turning to face their leader, her thoughts unreadable behind her heavy, amethyst eyes. "... we've all seen where this road leads. We've all seen what happens when we take in strays."

"Strays?" he asked, burying his hands into his arms.

"She means _Terra_," echoed a familiar voice from across the room. The empath's eyes widened in shock, before growing hard and distant.

"Beast, Boy, I**—" **Raven blurted out, Robin's voice rising to bury hers.

"I thought I ordered you to get some rest?"

"Couldn't sleep," said the green teen, who was suddenly consumed in a dry coughing fit that made the entire room wince. The empath watched him, every cough that wracked his body sending waves of shame and guilt flooding through hers, eyes lingering over every bandage that crisscrossed his blistered form. Bearing it as long as she could, she snapped her head away, throwing her hood up again. It wasn't long before she felt his eyes on the back of her head. She wanted to sink into the couch. Disappear.

"BB, come on! You're going back in your bed even if I have to haul you up there myself!"

"Nuh-uh, Cy! I am _not_ sitting out this discussion. I'm pretty sure I get a vote as a member of this team."

"Please, friend Beast Boy, it is not healthy for you to be up in this condition."

"Listen to Star, Beast Boy. And besides, we haven't put anything up to a vote. At least, not yet. Now, will you just lie down?"

"Look guys, I'll be fine. It's really not even that bad. I don't even feel any pain right now. I've had sunburn worse than this, all right? By morning, I'll be good as new."

"No, BB, you won't," Cyborg said, walking over to the changeling as if he expected him to keel over at any moment. "And the reason you're not feeling any pain is because of the sedative I gave you. You shouldn't even be ambulatory right now."

"I don't know the meaning of the word," Beast Boy chimed, flashing a familiar, toothy grin. This had evidently taken a lot out of him, as he began to wobble precariously. Cyborg, having predicted this, managed to grab him and steady him carefully, Starfire quickly jumping in to do the same. It was all Beast Boy could manage to smile deeper at his friends. "No, like literally. I don't know the meaning of the word," he mumbled sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck. Cyborg tried and failed to stifle the small smile that formed on his lips. Robin massaged his temple again. His patience was starting to wear away.

"It means you shouldn't be moving right now. And the way you're exerting yourself, it's going to have to be sooner rather than later that Raven's going to have to patch you up." At the drop of her name, the changeling's grin faded away, like sand lost to the wind.

"... Hasn't she done enough damage already?" he muttered pointedly under his breath, just loud enough for all ears to hear. Despite herself, the dark-haired girl sunk lower into the couch, gripping her cape taut around her body. Starfire looked at him, solemn and disappointed, and he immediately felt the guilt crash over him. He broke from her gaze. Cyborg gave a weary sigh, and shook his head disapprovingly. Robin smoothed the back of his neck, eager to change the subject.

"Alright, look. I'm thinking we take it easy for the next couple of days. Feel it out. If we don't think Levi's up to snuff, then that'll be the end of it. We'll do what we have to do, reimburse him for his car, rent him out a nice hotel room downtown for however long he wants, and that will be the end of it." The door opened across the room, all heads snapping over to it.

"Sounds good to me," Levi remarked, stepping into the room. He was still carrying that same bag, or rather, he had never dropped it. He sauntered all the way over to the group, and set his bag down with a heavy _thud_ that filled the room. Robin blinked. Starfire shot him a quizzical, sidelong expression. "Although, we can skip the whole team-tryout thing."

"How long have you been outside listening?" Robin asked.

"Hard to say." Levi drawled. "Think I nodded off for a minute there." He rubbed the sand out of his eyes. He _wanted_ a nap, but he _needed_ a shower. "Who's Terra?" he added, less tactfully than he could have managed. The words were barely out of his mouth before the empath was out of her seat, making her way for the door.

"I need to meditate," she announced loudly, the word pointed like a spear towards Levi's ribs. She disappeared from the room, Levi mouthing the word _meditate_ under his breath as she did, amused. No one spoke. He'd evidently touched a nerve, suddenly feeling like a real ass. He shrugged.

"Something I said?"

"Pretty sure I all but strapped you to a hospital gurney upstairs," Robin said, annoyed. Levi clicked his tongue, trying not to laugh.

"You did, as I recall. Made a big huff about it, too. I decided to get a second opinion, doc."

"It's fine, Robin," Beast Boy suddenly piped in. "He's been with me the whole time. Well, like the whole time. I mean, I wasn't with him for like a second there, but, uh ... " Beast Boy gave a nervous cough, which soon turned into a real, pained one.

"What my associate is trying to say is that I've been with him the whole time, except for the past minute or so. He insisted on making a dramatic entrance. Said something about trying to look tough."

"DUDE!" Beast Boy yelped, pointing an accusatorial finger at him. Cyborg laughed, Beast Boy punching him in the gut, his widening expression of anguish quickly showing he regretted the decision. Levi laughed nervously, watching the chaos he had caused ensue.

"But if you don't mind, I could use a place to crash for the night." He did his best to smile reassuringly, an awkward gesture that probably had the opposite effect.

"You're in worse shape than I thought," Robin said. "You really need to be back in the sickbay."

"As I told you on the very uncomfortable ride up here, I might add, I heal pretty quick. But, if you wanna ease my suffering, one of those sodas oughta do the trick," he said, doing his best to look cool and aloof, and not like a man about to collapse bleeding onto the floor at any minute. He wanted out of there, out of the tower. It was too dangerous. But, he'd have to bunk in for the night. "This time tomorrow, I'll be in fighting shape." The redhead shot him a concerned look, before handing him a cool drink. It wasn't a Dr. Pepper, but he'd make it work. He thanked her. She smiled, the gesture having the effect of making everyone settle down. Robin sighed.

"Alright. Cyborg, can you show Levi to his room?" Levi's ear's pricked up at the way he declared the room to be his. It rubbed him the wrong way for some nebulous reason he couldn't quite get to. "And Beast Boy, same goes for you. Get some rest."

"But, Robin**—**" the changeling started.

"That's an order, Beast Boy," the leader said. "Raven's too shook up to heal you tonight, and I don't want you hurting yourself any further." Beast Boy didn't say anything, silently acknowledging the young man. Cyborg motioned for Levi to follow him. He slung his bag over his shoulder and did so, waving back to Beast Boy as the pair left. The last thing he saw before he turned the corner was the changeling talking to Robin, negotiating, it looked like.

It must've been important.

...

...

...

Beast Boy wasn't sure how long he'd been lingering outside the girl's door. When it suddenly burst open, he would have jumped, were it not for the excruciating pain he felt every time he so much as blinked too hard. Instead, he merely let out a quiet, dignified squeak. The girl stood there in the doorway, glaring at him from under her hood. He didn't need to be an expert on body language to see the girl was clearly in a foul mood, her arms crossed and her hips cocked like a pistol. He merely flashed her a _ya' caught me_ grin.

"Do you have to be so loud?" she asked.

"I wasn't**—**_oh_," he said, remembering that Raven was, _duh_, a certified empath. He suddenly felt very embarrassed, wondering what exactly it was he was being loud about.

"Your nervousness is practically an emotional jackhammer."

"Couldn't sleep," he said, laughing skittishly. He felt very relieved indeed it was only nervousness he was putting out. "What am I feeling now?" he risked.

"Hungry?" she asked, clearly annoyed.

"You _are_ good!" he said, now very aware of his considerable hunger. Though, the fact that she was aware of it before him was almost … "Am I really that easy to read, Raven?"

"I can hear your stomach growling, Beast Boy."

"Oh." He cleared his throat. "Well, you know with everything that happened today, I didn't really get a chance to eat …" he rambled, not sure how to begin. The two stood there awkwardly, neither one of them making a move.

"I, uh, wanted to talk," he said, after a time.

"About what?" she said, tapping her foot impatiently, knowing full-well about what. He knew the girl liked to watch him squirm, like a nematode under a microscope in a 7th grade biology class.

"I … well, I, uh, wanted to apologize about some things I may have said earlier."

"You _may_ have said?" she asked, the word sticking him like a needle prick. He flinched, the girl catching the almost imperceptible movement. She was doing it again, she realized. Why was she always like this? She didn't mean to be so obtuse, but she didn't know how _not_ to be.

"Sorry," he muttered quietly. "Things I said. I _did_ say," he corrected, with a flourish of his finger. The girl sighed. She'd been dreading this moment since she'd left the group earlier to meditate. She'd been searching for the right words to say**—**and given her decided lack of social skills**—**the process went about as well as a man with Alzheimer's on an Easter egg hunt. Now came the fun part.

"Look, Beast Boy," she began, suddenly finding her feet very interesting. "I owe you an apology. More than that. If I hadn't**—**"

"**—**Rae, you don't owe me anything!" he blurted, putting up his hands. "Levi, _yes_, but me, no. If that situation were reversed**—**if I thought you had been shot for real**—**I would have reacted exactly the same as you did. They wouldn't have been able to pull me off of the guy that did it. I mean ..." he trailed off, now suddenly, violently aware of what he was saying. _Revealing_. Raven blinked, at a rare loss for words. The silence grew between them like a great, California redwood that propped up the sky.

"It's _Raven_," the girl said eventually, doing her best to sound annoyed. To her credit, the green teen almost believed it. He began to smile, but it turned halfway into a contortion of mild pain. She almost reached to grab him, catching herself at the last moment. "Does it hurt?"

"Only when I breathe," he said, finally managing that damned smile. She rolled her eyes.

"So stop breathing" she said, wearing an expression as unflinching as the side of a sheer cliff.

"Y'know, Raven," he began, smiling warily, "any other person probably wouldn't know you're joking."

"Who's joking?" she said, giving him a level look. He'd never admit it, but for the barest spectre of a moment he saw her lips twitch at the corners.

"Fine," he huffed. "Maybe I'll just hold my breath until I turn blue. Bet you'll feel reeeeeal silly, then."

"More like cyan," she drawled. "And there's only one way to find out."

"Challenge accepted." Beast Boy said, puffing out his chest to take a large breath. The second he started to inhale, he began to cough so violently that he doubled over, every cough sending tremors of pain through his body. The girl snatched him quickly**—**which was a mistake**—**her fingers digging into his raw, burned flesh. He jerked away reflexively from her grasp, and she yanked her hands back, suddenly embarrassed. He steadied himself against the wall as he settled into his dry hacking fit, hunched over, gripping his sides as if he expected his innards to rupture out at any moment. It was hard to watch**—**she'd done this to him. She didn't move away, but she couldn't look at him. Logically, she knew only a minute or so could've have passed, but it felt like hours. Her hand drifted over to the changeling, settling gently on the back of his shoulder. She felt the heat radiating out from under the bandages there, almost painful in itself. Before she could react, he'd worked his hand around so that it rested on hers. The contact made her flinch, and despite herself, she pulled her hand away as if from a hot stove. She stood there awkwardly, rubbing her arm up and down. Finally, the coughing began to die down, and the two were left there in the hallway in silence.

"Ugh," Beast Boy groaned weakly, wiping his mouth with the flat of his forearm. "My lungs feel like I made out with a chimney." Fortunately, her face muscles had grown quite strong over the years, and she managed not to smile.

"For a minute there, Garfield, I thought you were going to hack up a hairball."

"_Haw_, _haw_," he managed. "Haven't heard that one before."

"I guess I'm not the only one who likes lame jokes." Beast Boy's eyes suddenly widened.

"Oh, man. I've been telling jokes like _that_ all these years?" The girl merely nodded. Beast Boy buried his face in his hands, dealing with his existential crisis. "Don't look at me."

"Noted. But It's not too late to see the error of your ways."

"I'm so sorry, Raven. How can I ever make it up to you?"

"You can start by not telling anybody what I'm about to do."

"And what are you about to do?" he asked, clearly confused. The girl scanned the hallway left and right, making sure no one was walking by.

"Alright," she said, satisfied. "Come in. I'm healing you right now."

"Oh, _God_," Beast Boy said, "I must really be in bad shape if you're letting me into your room."

"You should stop talking before I change my mind" she said, beckoning him inside. He nodded, drawing his fingers along his lips, then throwing the key out into the hallway. She cast him a sidelong glance.

"How can you lock a zipper, Beast Boy?" He scratched his head. Now that he thought about it, the expression never really made any sense, one of those things you picked up as a child and never gave any thought to.

"Huh. Guess I never**—**"

"You're doing that talking thing again," she said, having clearly been waiting for him to speak. He frowned at her, silently fuming and twiddling his fingers. She groaned. "Made it all of two seconds didn't you?"

"Personal best," he said. He swiveled around her room, studying it, all shadow, curtains, arcana, and books. "Y'know, Raven, you don't have to patch me up tonight. With everything that's happened …"

"Beast Boy, you're hurt. It can't wait until tomorrow. You said it yourself, you can't sleep."

"You actually listened to something I said for once? _Wow_," he beamed. Though he hadn't intended it, the comment had struck a nerve.

"Again, the talking." she said, perhaps a little more gruffly than she intended. The smile faded from his face like a name etched into the sand between lapping waves.

"Sorry," he said, defeated. She did it again. She sighed.

"I'm healing you tonight. End of story. I have a handle on my powers again."

"But, Robin said**—**" he began.

"**—**I don't care what Robin said. Now, lay down."

"On the floor?"

"No, not on the …" she buried her face into the palm of her hand. "On my bed."

"Oh," he said, smoothing the back of his neck. "Are you sure? I mean, I'm fine with the floor. I don't want to …"

"Beast Boy, it's fine. Really. Now, lie down." He opened his mouth to say something, but he didn't have the words. He complied, ungracefully clambering up so as to not aggravate his injuries. He shifted himself around, and ended up with his head towards the edge of the bed. He tried not pay attention to how comfortable her bed was, and how he practically glided over the silken, lavender sheets. And most of all, he tried desperately not to lose himself in the rich, lilac fragrance that swaddled him more than any blanket. The pale girl pulled up a chair just behind him. Before he could say anything, he felt her cool fingers traipse carefully along the sides of his temples.

"Stop fidgeting," the girl said.

"But I haven't even**—**"

"_Mentally_," she said. He cleared his throat again. He slammed his eyes shut, trying to drive his feelings away. He needed something to focus on**—**anything.

_Lilac_.

Beast Boy's breathing became steadier, his chest rising and falling gently, over and over again. He didn't explode into another, wretched coughing fit, which was a good sign. The boy, usually so animated and restless, sank deeper into his trance, not unlike Raven in her meditations. Now it was it was her turn.

Healing was a tricky thing. She hadn't yet mastered the art, nor did she think it likely for some time to come. But she had always proved capable in the past of treating most of her team's wounds. But then again, about the worst injuries she had encountered were the occasional bruises and scrapes. The more she thought about it, she had only ever really saved the team a few dozen stitches or so in the long run. She knew she wouldn't have Beast Boy back up to 100%, but that was no reason not to shoot for it. She whispered her mantra under her breath. She wouldn't show it, but she was still frazzled after the night's events, and for other reasons not prudent to explore, her fingers seeming to want to drift absentmindedly through the boy's hair. She willed power through her fingertips, power which ran through the changeling's still form. The wisps of cool, black shadow snaked around his body. For the most part, wherever the energy touched his burned skin, the charred flesh vanished like smoke into the air, revealing green, healthy skin underneath. The effort was exhausting. She was only able to maintain the spell for a few precious seconds before she finally gave out, wholly drained from the attempt.

But it had been enough.

Her vision wavered, blackness creeping towards the edge of her sight as if she had stood up too fast. Before she could process it, Beast Boy was already getting to his feet**—**and ruining her bedspread in the process.

"Raven, are you alright? You look a little … paler than usual."

"I'm fine," she said. "Now stop messing up my sheets."

"Whoops. Sorry," he said, dismounting the bed showily like he was trying to impress the Russian judge. The boy wouldn't even take the bronze. Raven looked at him disapprovingly as she climbed out of her seat. He smiled.

"You did a pretty good job!" he beamed, rotating his shoulders. "It barely hurts anymore!"

"I did what I could," she said simply. Had she been any other girl, Beast Boy would have assumed she'd been fishing for a compliment. But not Raven.

"You don't have to be so modest," he said. "You should take really take a page from Cyborg."

"Uhh … booyah?" she asked, looking at him obliquely. He snorted, trying not to laugh in her face, but failing miserably. His laughter was infectious**—**but she was penicillin.

"It's not my place to brag, Beast Boy. You still won't be back to normal for a few days. It's all my fault." He winced.

"Raven, I …"

"If I hadn't lost control like that, nothing would have happened. Beast Boy, I could have _killed_ someone tonight. I could have killed _you_." She turned her back to him, and began to distance herself.

"Raven, it's not your fault," he said, on her heels.

"I thought we won. I thought we banished him. But he's still here. I'm not sure he ever really left."

"It's not your fault," he said, louder this time. She wouldn't listen. She _couldn't_.

"Tonight proved it. I'm always going to be my father's daughter," she said with the kind of absolute finality that turned his blood to icewater. She looked like a spooked horse. Like she was about to make a run for it.

From her life.

Beast Boy snatched her by her unbruised wrist, turning her around to face him.

"Raven," he said, almost pleading with the girl, "... it's not your fault." She blanched, growing quiet. What had she done? Why would she rope him into her melodrama? How _dare_ she? And now, here was poor Beast Boy, trying to console her. She had to take it back.

"I'm sorry, Beat Boy. I know that," she said, putting on her best face. "I was just**—**"

"It's not your fault," he said, steel in his voice.

"I know," she said.

"Raven, look at me," he said. She hadn't been aware she had been staring at the ground between them this whole time. "It's not your fault."

"I _know_, Beast Boy."

"No, Raven, you don't. It's not your fault." She didn't say anything this time. He didn't know what _he_ was saying. The evil within her. The things she was capable of. The things she he done. If he only knew …

"Raven," he said, her name thick in the air. "... It's not your fault." She looked into his eyes, expecting to find judgment, or fear, or condemnation. Instead, she found something even worse. The eyes didn't lie. He was so utterly convinced of her, it ran down to his bones. How could he … ?

It was like a dam burst in her soul. The two of them stood there for the longest time in a rare, comfortable silence.

"Thanks," she whispered softly, a feather of a word that drifted lightly through the air.

"Anytime," he said, punctuated by a self-conscious laugh.

"You should probably get some sleep, Garfield."

"Probably," he said, a smile creeping on his lips. He gave her a polite nod and almost made it out the door before the girl stopped him.

"_Wait_ …" the girl started, the rumblings of laughter somewhere deep under her voice. "... did you just _Good Will Hunting_ me?" Beast Boy stopped dead in his tracks and turned to face the girl.

"Is that the one with the robots that transform and stuff?"

"That's _Transformers_."

"Oh," he said, hooking his thumbs into his belt. "Are you sure? The one with that Megan Fox in it that everyone's always drooling over?"

"I'm pretty sure. In fact, I'd say I'm almost certain," the girl said dryly.

"Hmm," he mused to himself. "If you say so. 'Night, Rae," he waved, making for the door. He made it all of three steps before the girl corrected him.

"_Raven_. Get some sleep," she said, watching him go. He took his time, turning to face her.

"I intend to. It's been a long night," he said, fighting a yawn.

"I'm surprised Robin even let you out of your room to see me," she said, knowing the pair were due for some of Robin's patented admonishment in the morning.

"Hey, I can do things of my own volition!" he huffed, clearly offended.

"Look at you with the big words," she said, just a hint of amusement in her tone.

"It has three syllables and everything," Beast Boy replied proudly, like a child presenting a freshly-crayoned T-rex to adorn the family fridge. There were about a hundred different verbal barbs, snipes, and snarks she could have gone with in the moment, but she decided to let it go. For his sake.

_At least for the moment_, she thought.

"I'll see you in the morning, Beast Boy. Better get back in your bed before Robin finds out."

"Naaah," he said, leaning casually against the threshold of her door. "He understands. I told him earlier."

"Oh?" she asked, suddenly feeling adventurous. "And what**—**pray tell**—**did you tell him?" She hadn't expected him to look her right in the eyes, grinning warmly.

"I told him I had to go see about a girl," he said. With a wink, he was gone, the doors whooshing closed, Star Trek-style behind him.

Raven just rolled her eyes, smiling.

...

...

...

"I'll have to give you the proper tour tomorrow," finished Cyborg, the pair arriving at an unmarked, unassuming door**—**Levi's room for the night.

"I appreciate the offer, Cyborg, but I'm not trying to shove my way to the front of the line here." He still felt weird about the whole thing, like the designated driver watching a room full of drunks have a good time.

"It's not like that. Really."

"Then what's it like? Because from where I'm standing, I'm kinda the odd man out here. I mean, I can practically feel my skin crawling, it's so awkward," he said, scratching the scragglies on his chin. He needed a shave.

"Look, if you really want to bounce tomorrow, then nothing's stopping you. And yeah, admittedly, maybe we're all a little on edge about what happened tonight, but come morning, I'm sure we'll all be past this." The man, well, _robot-man_, seemed absolutely sincere. It almost pained Levi to be around that kind of sincerity, which had been alien to him for so long now.

"I find that hard to imagine," he said, more to himself than anybody else.

"Well, Beast Boy seems to think you're alright. So, we can't really hold a grudge on that whole, _shooting-him_ thing." Levi smiled. He liked the green dude, finding him pleasant enough. Which made it all the more worse that he'd blasted him with enough demon energy to punch out Tyson.

"Well, when you put it like _that_ ... " he said, replaying the incident in his head. How could he have been so stupid to not to have recognized them?

"Don't feel too bad. There have been times where we've all wanted to shoot him," he said laughing, a genuine, hearty thing that couldn't help but make Levi feel even more out of place. "Especially Raven," he added.

"Speaking of which?" Levi asked, not sure how to approach the subject. Cyborg frowned, taking a moment to pick his words very carefully.

"Try not to take it personally," he said. Levi felt bad for him. It was an sticky position to be in**—**covering for his friend's actions like that.

"She damn near tore my head off back there," he said, rubbing his neck instinctively. It wasn't as bad as earlier**—**his healing abilities had been working overtime all night**—**but it was still raw. Or maybe he just imagined it, the feel of that dark noose around his neck every time he closed his eyes. "This coming right after she nearly crushed me with my own car."

"I'm sorry. I mean it, Levi. It was a misunderstanding. She's not mad at you anymore, per se. She's mad at herself for losing control."

"Yes, and now I'm a walking, talking reminder of that. I'm sure things will be just _peachy_ in the morning." The metal-man sighed, motioning for Levi to take a step inside.

"She'll come around."

Without further ado, Cyborg opened the door and hit the lights. Levi stepped inside, following him.

"Good lord," Levi said, scanning the room. "It's a little … uh …" he trailed off, not sure how to be tactful. "Home-on-the-range-y?" he asked, unsure. The entire room was a painted landscape of cacti, tumbleweed, and burnt earth, set off by a rich, purple night sky littered with stars that Levi suspected glowed in the dark.

"Yeah," Cyborg began, clearing his throat. "The room actually belonged to someone before you. We sort of gave it a theme we thought she'd appreciate."

"_She_?" Levi asked. He took a stab in the dark. "Terra?" Cyborg's face wrinkled uneasily. Evidently, Levi had drawn blood. "Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean**—**"

"No, it's fine," Cyborg said. "And yeah, this is**—**was**—**" he corrected himself, "her room."

"Are you sure I'm not stepping on anybody's toes, Cyborg?" The young man just looked at him, as if he wanted to say one thing, but instead decided on another.

"You should get some sleep, Levi."

"_Yeeeeah_," he drawled, chewing on the word like a toothpick. "You're probably right."

...

...

...

The bathroom was nice. Nicer than he'd seen in a while, actually. It was rough living out there on the road, your existence defined by yellow lines on hot asphalt. He'd come into money every now and then by way of his occupation**—**tending to kick down doors on backroom deals**—**but he never held onto it for long. It was always blood money. _Tainted_. He didn't like the feel of it in his pocket, didn't like the ideas it gave him. Every now and then, he'd entertain the fantasy of going full-on Steve Miller Band, and lighting out for the territories. Leaving this life of his behind on the white sands of a sunkissed beach, one where the drinks were rimmed with salt and the most he had to worry about was sunburn. But those kinds of thoughts would get him killed faster than any bullet. He gave away most of the cash, leaving it on church and charity doorsteps in unassuming brown bags. The little he didn't give away, he used to keep himself afloat. It kept gas in the tank and food in his belly. Every now and then he'd splurge on a motel room for a night or two, sometimes maybe even a week or so, depending on how his luck ran and what business he had lined up. It always left him feeling guilty. He liked nice things like most everybody on God's green earth, but he rarely allowed himself to have them. Though, he would never part with his Fryes. They were one of his few vices**—**$300 shitkickers that got him from A to B in style. But somehow, being here in the Tower, the nearest thing to luxury he'd ever known, left him wracked with a vague, uneasy guilt.

He didn't waste time, stripping down and hopping into the shower. The water was already warm before he'd gotten his belt off. The night had taken a lot out of him, and alone there, his injuries were finally catching up with him. He crawled into the shower, his body a canvas of hurt underneath. The warm water fit his body like a second skin, the night leaving him, vanishing down the drain. He closed his eyes and leaned against the wall. Slowly, he began to sag lower, and before long he found himself sitting there, the water crashing down over his shoulders. He buried his face into his hands, running them through his wet, matted hair. He nodded off, for how long, he couldn't say. Sure he was tired, but that wasn't what bothered him. He was _weary_. Try as he might, he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd been pulled here. If not by _him_, then by something else entirely. Something far more sinister.

The _girl_.

He'd called it immediately. She was demon. No mistaking it. Halfblood, at least, but it was there. And as he'd seen up-close-and-personal, she was powerful. Dangerous. And the fact that the two of them were now under the same roof didn't strike him much as coincidence. He could hear the gears turning even now, every choice he made another hop in fate's absurd Rube Goldberg machine. And, as he closed his eyes, he realized he hadn't been running away from his little tragedy this whole time. He had been sprinting towards it.

_The End of All Things_.

He clambered out the shower and snatched a towel, feeling almost human for a change. He was nearly to the door, but he lingered. It was a mistake. He worked his forearm into the mirror, clearing the fog away. He couldn't look at himself, no matter how hard he tried. His eyes tore straight through the man in the mirror like wrapping paper. If he squinted, he could almost see the future hidden behind his pale flesh, a black sea of uncharted, strange waters. The road ahead seemed almost absolute, as though his life were plotted out with thumbtacks along some dusty, unseen map. And somewhere near the map's edge, where civilization died and the monsters lived, were the words _Here Be Dragons_.

He hadn't been able to salvage much from his car. He'd grabbed the gun first thing. It was his best focus for his powers, and losing it would've hobbled him for the foreseeable future. And if nothing else, it would have forced him to find other outlets for his abilities, which would likely be a messy, painful process. The rest of his gear came next. Fortunately**—**as he'd been reminded before**—**he'd never been one for sentiment. His car had never been particularly organized before it had been wrapped around him, and he didn't have time to sift through the wreckage of the cabin before the fire licked at his heels. He went for the trunk, wrenching the broken, warped hood off its hinges. He only had time to grab the gym bag and leave, the ceiling above him already giving out, the place acrid with black tar smoke that chewed up his lungs. He was thankful he'd had the forethought to pack it with enough essentials to get him through in a bind. Without any ceremony, he dumped the contents out over the bed, shaking everything loose. He took a mental inventory. Skivvies, socks, and a toothbrush, but no toothpaste, it looked like. The devil was in the details, it seemed. Electric razor and used razor blades. A pair of worn Levi's (that joke never got old) and a set of light grey slacks for when he needed to get all dolled up (his black oxfords were missing, however). The dress belt for the dress pants. Wifebeater and a henley. Two button-up shirts. Finally**—**to his surprise**—**an old leather jacket. It was red. It was _loud_. And it brought back a lot of memories. Some of them could even be considered _good_. He turned it over carefully in his hands, fingers enjoying the grainy, textured leather. And sure enough**—**like his own, personal phantom haunting him for the rest of his days**—**was that word again, printed across the back in glitzy, showy letters.

_SHOLEM_

He stuffed his clothes gently back into the bag, plopping it at the foot of his bed, preparing to sleep. He slipped into his jeans, a habit he wouldn't be breaking anytime soon, having learned to be ready to move at the drop of a Stetson. A lot can happen in a moment. And so much life can happen in one year, he realized. There's one less plate at the dinner table. A zipcode changes. A home becomes a blur in your rearview. You wake up one day, and all you have to your name are enough clothes to last you the week. He melted into his bed, about the comfiest thing his tired bones had felt in a long time. He closed his eyes and waited for sleep to come, but it only teased him, watching him from the corner of the large, airy room. He groped blindly in the dark for his phone, a prepaid piece he'd picked up a state back, one with a data plan that made it almost too expensive to be considered a burner. He shuffled over to the internet app. His search engine appeared. He punched in his query, all ungraceful thumbs and awkward digits, still not having mastered the feel of the device. _T-I-T-A-N-S J-U-M-P C-I-T-Y_.

He began sifting through the search results, which included**—**among other things**—**a suite of social media sites (Did he even have a Facebook? He couldn't remember …). He scrolled past the entries, finding their Wikipedia article. It was very short, most of the information there he already knew, which wasn't a whole hell of a lot to begin with. He backed out and started delving into the news section. To his chagrin, the first result that popped was the warehouse fire. He skimmed it, looking for the key points of what the story was. Evidently, the superhero team had skirmished with an undetermined villain, and during the battle, the warehouse had caught fire. After they'd left, firefighters had quickly gained control of the scene and put the fire out. _So, that's the official story. 'Unnamed villain,' huh?_ As far as he could tell, he wasn't mentioned directly in any of the articles pertaining to the fire. Call him petty, but he couldn't help but feel a little miffed. It was a pretty kickass fire, after all. Not that he was particularly proud of arson, or anything, but _still_ ...

He ended up back on the search results page. He clicked the link for their official Facebook page, curious to see the face they presented to the public. After all, it probably took a lot of PR work to keep a group like them well-received in the public eye. They probably did endorsement deals for Coke or Pepsi, had sneakers with their faces on them. Hell, their social media pages were probably all managed by**—**

"_Jesus_!" he blurted, his little outburst filling the empty room. He was sitting up in his bed now, which creaked and groaned with his movement. With a wry grin, he scrolled past the Titan's cover picture, which had been replaced with that of one Mr. Burt Reynolds on a bearskin rug**—**wearing nothing but a smile. As he scrolled farther, it became clear the page had been taken over by a third party, the last several posts written in pidgin, Internet English. Glancing at the posts, it appeared the page had been compromised within the hour, each of the last seven posts barely minutes apart. The first post read simply "_H4CKED!_**—**_CF_." Levi rolled over onto his back again, putting a mental pin in this new information. Ever the masochist, he set his alarm early and dropped his phone on the nightstand, the hunk of plastic clattering angrily, betrayed.

"That's about enough for the night," he mumbled to himself, drawing the covers tight. And as he closed his eyes and let sleep take him, there was Burt Reynolds again, Levi not sure he'd ever really left.


End file.
